His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  “He’s dead,” was all he was able to say.

  Steve nodded. “I know, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.” He gave Elliott an embarrassed smile. “You probably think I’m a nutcase,” he said. “But I told you about Robert, and I really do believe there’s a lot more out there than we know about.”

  Reaching out and taking Steve’s coffee out of his hand, he set the cup beside his own on the nightstand. Pulling Steve down to him, he said: “You’re not a nutcase. I know. Trust me.”

  * * *

  It was not until he was on his way home from Steve’s that he allowed himself to give any thought to Steve’s dream. Was it possible that John was reaching out to Steve, too? If so, why? What did he hope to accomplish? It could all be just coincidental, of course, but he somehow knew it wasn’t.

  The respite of his time with Steve aside, he was still tired from the stress of the past few days, and went to bed relatively early, for him.

  He really does like you.

  I like him too.

  I know. I told him.

  So, he knows about you?

  Not really. Not yet. It’s not my place.

  You want me to tell him?

  That’s up to you. Not until you’re ready.

  What do you think of this Hill thing?

  I’m not G.J. Hill.

  I know. You keep telling me.

  The DNA will tell you.

  * * *

  Sunday morning, as he sat on the balcony with his coffee reading the paper, Cessy called to invite him to BJ’s soccer game that afternoon and dinner afterwards.

  “Thanks, Sis, I appreciate it, but…”

  “No but’s about it. I’m not going to have you sitting around that apartment moping and worrying.”

  He laughed. “Where did you get the idea I was sitting around moping and worrying?”

  Cessy’s response was firm. “Well, I would be if I were you. I think you should get out of the house.”

  “I’ve been out of the house,” Elliott said.

  “Oh?” Her voice perked up. “You’ve seen Steve?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen Steve.”

  “Is he there now? Why don’t you bring him to the game, and to dinner?”

  Elliott sighed. “Cessy, I keep telling you…we’re just seeing one another. We’re not joined at the hip.”

  “Well, you could still invite him to the game.”

  “I could, but I won’t. Nothing kills a relationship faster than a choke hold.”

  “But you’ll come, anyway. BJ would really like to have you see him play.”

  “Okay, I’ll come. What time and where?”

  “Why don’t you come by here at around two. The game starts at three, no sense in taking two cars.”

  “Two it is,” he said. “I’ll see you then. Bye.” He returned to his paper.

  * * *

  Monday morning he realized that, for the first Monday in as long as he could remember, he didn’t have a specific job to look forward to. The day was still filled with details surrounding the loss of the building, including a call from the fire inspector he’d met at the site. They’d made their way into the basement, and though the explosion had obliterated just about everything in the laundry area, it was evident that it had originated in the area of the driers, all but confirming the gas leak theory. But whether the leak had been accidental or deliberate had yet to be determined. Elliott once again assured the inspector that there had never been a problem before, that the driers were new and had been professionally installed.

  He talked briefly with Larry Fingerhood, with whom he’d made a Saturday appointment before the explosion. Larry’s job was switched from listing the property for sale to trying to find a new project.

  “You’re sure you’re ready to get right back on the horse?” Larry asked.

  “I’m ready,” Elliott said. “And the sooner the better.”

  He was not, however, ready for Brad’s call, which came in at about three thirty.

  “We got the DNA results,” Brad said. “Our John Doe is G.J. Hill.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Elliott had no idea what he said in response, and was only aware of ending the conversation somehow and hanging up the phone. Dizzy and feeling physically ill, he plopped down onto the chair beside the phone and tried to pull himself together. The weight of John’s presence again pressed on him like a stack of heavy blankets on an uncomfortably hot night, and he slowly realized that his reaction was being compounded by John’s.

  How could it be? How could John deny being G.J. Hill when his DNA said he was? DNA doesn’t lie. Maybe John had an identical twin? His mind was a maelstrom of short-circuited thoughts, flashing and sputtering and throwing off sparks. Everything he knew or thought he knew about John was called into question, even to the point of wondering again if John wasn’t some sort of a tumor on his imagination. That was a thought that truly frightened him.

  He made it through the rest of the evening somehow, and was reluctant to go to bed. He didn’t want to have another talk with John, so he sat in his chair and stared at the television until, despite himself, he felt himself falling asleep.

  I’m not G.J. Hill.

  Even asleep, Elliott felt his frustration.

  Yes you are, damn it! DNA doesn’t lie!

  No, it doesn’t. The DNA is mine, but I’m not G.J. Hill.

  What in the hell is that supposed to mean?

  I…I’m not G.J. Hill!

  Then who the hell are you?

  I still don’t know. It’s closer, now. I feel it. But I still don’t know. Please stay with me; I can’t find out without you!

  What do I have to do with it?

  I don’t know that, either. I told you, I’m learning. The only thing I knew when I came to you was that my name is John. And then I knew I was not G.J. Hill, but I never would have learned that if you hadn’t found my books.

  So, they are your books! Then you are Hill!

  No, I’m not. I…I…they’re my books. I know now that I took the pictures. But it’s so hard to explain…or to understand. It’s so close. You’re the key to the answer. I only learn through you. Help me.

  In total frustration, he let go of his mind and sank into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning was a morass of conflicting thoughts and emotions, which he fought to bring under control. How the hell could John be G.J. Hill and not be G.J. Hill? If John wasn’t Hill, who was he?

  The only possible logical explanation he could come up with was that John had for some reason changed his real name to G.J. Hill—or had it changed for him. If John had indeed changed his real name, it might well be a direct link to why he was killed, and maybe to who had killed him. Could John have been in the Witness Protection Program, perhaps?

  His immediate reaction was to go to the phone and call Brad. But he quickly discarded it, at least for the moment. He knew that mentioning the possibility that Hill was not the victim’s real name would open the door to far too many questions as to how he might have come to that conclusion. It was, he decided, probably preferable to sit back and wait to see if the police could figure it out on their own. Brad had said they were checking on Hill’s social security number. Surely that would reveal something. Maybe then they could track backward to the point where the name change had occurred, and from there….

  By Tuesday afternoon, he was even able to get back to his own life, and he soon immersed himself in paperwork and details and phone calls. Cessy called to announce that Brad’s mother was arriving Friday and reminding him again to set aside some time for her.

  After Cessy’s call, he called Ted, Sam and Arnie, assuring them that he was looking for a new building, and that in the meantime he would try to keep them busy with small projects at his other properties.

  Late in the afternoon, he’d pulled himself sufficiently out of the morass to decide to look over the few potential properties he’d seen in Sunday’s paper. He could, of course, jus
t wait until Larry found something for him, but he was too impatient.

  Only two—one a four-flat on a corner lot on Elmdale, a couple blocks off Broadway, the other a ten-unit on Montana just west of Halsted—looked promising, because he liked their neighborhoods. He drove by the ten-unit first. It was in the center of a block of mid-nineteen-twenties buildings of a similar style, and was being offered by a realtor he was not familiar with. He would have liked to park and take a walk-by for a closer inspection, but couldn’t find a parking place—not a good sign. He circled through the alley to see it from the rear and check on garage space. There was a two-car wooden garage and a concrete ramp only large enough for three other cars at most.

  The four-flat had no sign in front. That usually meant the owner was trying to sell it himself, which could be either a positive or a negative from the standpoint of a potential buyer. It was a raised set on a corner lot. He assumed the half-basement constituted the fourth flat, though it was difficult to tell from the outside. Finding a parking place on the street paralleling the side of the building, he got out for an inspection, first walking down the alley behind the property to see it from the rear. He then moved up the side to the front. From what he could see, it appeared to be in basically good shape. It stood out from its neighbors primarily for its arched windows and other subtle but important gingerbread elements he always looked for. He put great stock in small details that indicated the builders had put some extra care into their construction.

  He made a mental note to call the numbers given in the ads for both properties.

  * * *

  By the time he got home, he was feeling considerably better. He was grateful to John for keeping in the background and giving him some space for himself. Having seen two prospective new properties had helped. Even if nothing came of it, it gave him the feeling that he was accomplishing something. About the Sheffield building, he adopted a stoic attitude. His lawyer would handle any lawsuit that might arise and his insurance would pretty much cover the financial losses.

  He was having a drink and watching the news when Steve called to see how he was doing, and to invite him to a play Friday night. He had been given tickets by a friend at work who was unable to use them, and Elliott readily accepted the invitation. He was aware even as they talked that he and Steve were developing a very nice unspoken understanding. He sensed that neither of them wanted to push the relationship too far too fast, so they seemed to be taking turns in initiating their get-togethers. If either one of them should want a little extra space, he could just hold off on his next “turn.” It hadn’t happened yet, but Elliott was grateful for the knowledge that the option was there.

  He’d just hung up from Steve and was ready to see about dinner when the phone rang again.

  “Elliott, Brad. We’ve got a new problem with our John Doe.”

  Puzzled by the reference to “John Doe” instead of “G.J. Hill,” Elliott said, “What do you mean? What kind of problem?”

  “Well, San Luis Obispo ran a check on Hill’s social security number, and it seems there is no such person.”

  John was right! He had insisted he was not G.J. Hill, and he wasn’t! G.J. Hill did not exist! He never had!

  “So we’re back to square one,” he heard Brad’s voice saying. “San Luis Obispo found the number had originally been issued to a George Joseph Parsons, who’s been dead since 1989. A new SS card was issued to someone claiming to be him in 1998.”

  “How can that happen?” Elliott asked, though he knew identity theft was common.

  “Going through a cemetery looking for someone with a similar birth date, then contacting Social Security to request a new card under that person’s name is one of the oldest tricks in the book, and I’m amazed it still works, but sometimes it does.

  “Actually, when you consider the size of the Social Security bureaucracy and the number of requests for new I.D.s they get every year it’s inevitable that things like this fall through the cracks. Especially after nine-eleven, when they tightened security.

  “But whoever our John Doe is took it one step further. We found out that once he had the card, he filed papers for a legal name change from Parsons to Hill. He apparently kept at least Parsons’ initials.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have just kept Parsons’ whole name?”

  “Probably to try to put one more step between his real identity and the chance of anyone finding out he’d stolen Parsons’ name,” Brad replied.

  Elliott shook his head. “I still can’t imagine anyone getting away with it.”

  “Maybe you can’t, and maybe I can’t, and maybe he was just damned lucky all the way around, but the fact is that he did it and he did get away with it. The bigger the bureaucracy, the more holes there are in it.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Well, there had to have been a reason for him to be in Chicago. And since the nature of Doe’s murder suggests premeditation, that means that his killer or killers knew he was in town. We’ll have to coordinate more closely with the San Luis Obispo police to try to figure out what he was doing here.

  “Hill’s publisher said he had no idea, said he was working on a book of photos along the California coast. He did take some freelance magazine assignments, so it still might have been something to do with his work, but who knows? Cole might still be involved, but there’s no use speculating at this point. We’ll check it all out, anyway.”

  * * *

  Brad was right: they were back to square one—“they” being the police, Elliott and John.

  Knowing that “G.J. Hill” was an assumed name both solved a mystery and created a new one. John now had an identity, but it wasn’t the right one. He still had no idea of what it was like for John, on whatever plane of existence—or nonexistence—he inhabited. The bottom line, again, was that he had not been deceiving Elliott; he wasn’t G.J. Hill.

  He’d also said several times that he was “learning”—learning what Elliott had had no idea, until he realized that John apparently meant it literally. He had started out knowing nothing except his name. Everything presented to him since his death was new to him. He still conveyed his thoughts in fairly simple terms. It was as though he were trying to move back and forth across a bridge between two worlds and didn’t yet know how to do it easily. He knew he was not G.J. Hill, but apparently was unable to convey the complexities of living as Hill without being him.

  * * *

  The rest of his evening was uneventful, and when he went to bed, he dreamed again of mountains.

  They aren’t mountains, they’re hills.

  Does it matter?

  I don’t know how to explain it. But it’s important.

  Does it have something to do with your real name?

  Yes! I don’t know what, but I know we’re very close!

  Were you in the Witness Protection Program? Is that why you chose the name G.J. Hill?

  I don’t think so. Wouldn’t I have had to have done something wrong to be put there?

  Not necessarily. But it might explain why you were…what happened to you.

  Oh. No, I think I’d sense it if I might have been.

  Even asleep, Elliott noticed that John knew what the Witness Protection Program was, indicating that his general knowledge of the world was expanding rapidly.

  I can only imagine how confusing all this is for you.

  Oh, you have no idea!

  * * *

  Thursday morning he got a call from the fire marshal asking to meet him at ten o’clock at the rear of the Sheffield property. He had deliberately avoided even driving by the ruins since the day of the explosion, and didn’t want to spend any more time there than he had to. Rather than driving down Sheffield past the front of the building, he went directly to the alley behind it.

  An official-looking car was pulled up directly parallel to the security tape that cordoned off the property. Pulling up behind it, he recognized the man in it as the same one who had been at the scene the morning of
the explosion. He remembered the man’s name was Swans, partially because the marshal, a heavyset, flushed-face man in his mid-fifties, was to Elliott’s mind anything but swan-like.

  After a handshake and exchanged greetings, Swans led past the cordon tape to what remained of the back steps. The entire back third of the building was basically gone, with only the north side wall and a section of the back southwest wall rising above a mountain of rubble. He could see that the southeast corner of the basement had been somewhat cleared out to expose what little remained of the laundry area.

  Pointing into the hole, Swans said, “That’s the flashpoint,” he said. “You can see what’s left of one of the driers. It was right there.”

  “How can you be certain?” Elliott asked, immediately feeling stupid to have asked.

  “Can you see the gas connector hose going into the back of the drier?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, you can also see that the coupling is all but undamaged. Which means that one drier, at least, had been disconnected from the gas line. But we found the valve to the line was in the On position.”

  “So someone uncoupled the driers but left the valves on?”

  “Yep. Definitely not an accident. You got any idea who might have done this? Or why?”

  Elliott glanced over at Collina’s building, which had also received damage in the blast, though it was hard to tell, because the presence of a large end-loader indicated they had reached the stage of pulling down the walls.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Elliott began, “though I don’t know how to prove it.”

  Swans looked at him, nodding his head slowly. “Well, why don’t you just tell me what you think, and we’ll take it from there.”

  Elliott did.

  As they returned to their cars, Swans said, “So when are you going to start razing it? Now that our investigation’s completed, the city will want it down as soon as possible. It’s too much of a safety hazard the way it is.”

  Elliott looked back through what had been the bedroom of one of the second-floor front apartments. “Yeah, he said. “I’ll get on it tomorrow.”